


Hell Frozen Over

by whitchry9



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, POV Outsider, Season/Series 01, don't trying vigilante-ing in the winter okay, matt makes poor choices, sometime in there when he still has the black ninja costume
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6567082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thankfully for Matt, the couple that spot the Devil of Hell's Kitchen half frozen to death in the snow take him home and warm him up. (It's not without complications, but nothing with Matt ever is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Frozen Over

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt is over here. http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/7552.html?thread=15660416#cmt15660416
> 
> (I may have accidentally turned middle aged couple into elderly, but... whoops.)

“I was thinking we could invite the children over for a nice Sunday dinner next weekend. After church, of course, not that any of them go. I could cook up a pot of minestrone and that garlic bread you like. I haven't seen Mira in so long, and you know with everything she's been through-”

“Hush,” Quinto told her.

Gisella huffed. 52 years of marriage and he still did not have the right to shush her. She was about to let loose on him when he pointed down the alley they were walking by. Gisella squinted into the snow to make out what he was pointing at.

“Garbage? You know my eyesight isn't that good in the cold.”

“I think there's a person in there.”

She tutted. “I thought the shelters were all open in this weather.”

Quinto shrugged. “Maybe they haven't heard?” He handed her the bag of shopping. “I'll go check.”

“As if I'd let you have all the fun on your own,” she retorted, passing the bag back to him. “We can both go.”

They trudged down the alley, the snow nearly up to Gisella's knees in some places. Being short was difficult.

“Hello?” Quinto called as they got closer, and Gisella could indeed tell it was a person. But they were wearing all black, which made it difficult to distinguish them in the dim light. She had no idea how Quinto spotted them.

The snow was still flurrying around them, and seemed to take offense that they had decided to intervene and had renewed its efforts to cover New York.

Quinto pulled out the cell phone that Carlo had given him for the Christmas the previous year. He didn't know how to use the thing, but he sure knew how to use the flashlight app. He turned it on and shone it in the direction of the person.

“Oh dear,” Gisella whispered.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen stared back.

 

Gisella had lived in New York for all her years, with two children and four grandchildren, and yet, she had never yet had to deal with a case of hypothermia. And certainly not hypothermia in a man as impressive as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. (She wasn't sure who gave him that name, and wasn't sure she wanted to know, but she had to admit it was apt.)

He wasn't very impressive at the time though. Halfway to undressing, despite the freezing cold, and looking not quite at them, but in their direction. He was younger than she'd expected, although she was getting to the age where everyone was younger than she expected, and getting younger all the time.

“Oh dear,” she said, rushing to his side. “Now, you just stop taking those clothes off. I know you think it's the right thing to do, but that's the hypothermia talking. Quinto, give him your coat.”

“S'hot,” the man told her.

“No dear. It's very cold. See how it's snowing?” Quinto was shaking his coat off and he'd barely gotten it off her shoulder before Gisella was draping it around the Devil's shoulders.

The Devil hummed.

“Now, you're going to come back with us to our apartment to get warm, and I won't hear any arguments from you, come on now,” she said, using her best teacher voice. It had worked on generations of kindergartners and she was pleased to note she hadn't lost her touch, since the Devil only nodded dumbly and allowed himself to be pulled along.

 

Thankfully, they were only a block from their apartment building when they happened upon the Devil, and even with him stumbling through the snow, they made it back in no time at all.

“Right,” Gisella said. “Off with those wet clothes now. Quinto go get him some of your warmest pyjamas. And put the kettle on.”

 

The Devil was struggling now, arms lost somewhere inside his shirt.

Gisella tutted. “Lift your arms above your head.” He obeyed, and she was able to tug the shirt over his head. She managed to hold back her gasp at the sight of the bruises and scars covering his chest and abdomen.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” she asked, tracing a finger over one of the more recent scars.

The Devil shrugged.

 

Quinto returned with a pair of his warmest pyjama pants and a woolen sweater.

“Here dear, let's put this on.” She handed the sweater to the Devil, who immediately pushed it away.

“No, you need to wear clothes. You have hypothermia,” she told him strictly.

The Devil shook his head, making a face. “Scratchy.”

She considered that. Wool was terrible. “Get something softer,” she instructed Quinto. “And find the thermometer.”

 

“Pants off,” she told him. “They're soaking too.”

Numb fingers struggled with a belt until she took pity on him and unhooked the latch. It was surprisingly intimate. She hoped he was wearing underwear.

Thankfully he was, and there were no protests to putting on the dry pants. Before he could, he stripped off the heavy boots and thick socks he was wearing, which were soaked and freezing as well.

She tutted. “How long were you out for?”

He shrugged. “Not long. Long 'nough.”

“I don't know what was so important that you couldn't stay inside during a blizzard,” she scolded him.

“Kidnapping,” he replied absently, looking somewhere over her shoulder.

The word made her heart sink, and before she could ask if he'd been able to help, Quinto returned with a t-shirt and a non scratchy sweater, both of which she tugged onto the Devil. She moved him from a chair to the couch, where the heated blanket sat. It was wonderful for her arthritis when she wanted to sit and watch TV, but it would do just as well for thawing a vigilante. Quinto also handed her the thermometer and the kettle began to whistle.

The Devil winced.

“Hot chocolate, I think,” she told him. Turning her attention back to the Devil, she handed him the thermometer. “Under your tongue.”

He seemed confused as to what to do with it.

“Open your mouth,” she told him. When he obeyed, she stuck it under his tongue. “Close mouth. No biting.”

Surprisingly, adults with hypothermia were a lot like small children. At least them she knew how to handle.

It took the thermometer a few minutes, perhaps confused about not measuring a fever, but it finally beeped and she pulled it out of his mouth. 83.1. Definitely not good, but also not at the stage where he needed a hospital for sure.

“Don't feel cold,” he muttered.

“Hypothermia does that to you,” she told him, sitting on the couch next to him. The electric blanket was heating up, and she tucked it in around him. “Cross your legs,” she suggested. “That way your feet can get warm too.”

It took him a minute, but he managed, struggling with the motor control needed to complete the task.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” she asked again, knowing he was probably still too confused to be able to tell. Everything was likely numb.

The Devil frowned. “Head hurts,” he said, reaching up for it. “S'loud.”

She frowned. Their building wasn't exactly soundproof, but it was a relatively quiet night, the snow acting as a blanket and a deterrent, keeping everyone inside and tucked under blankets.

Quinto returned with hot chocolate, handing one mug to the Devil and one mug to Gisella.

“Here you go buddy,” he said, making sure the Devil's hands had a tight enough grip before letting go.

The Devil frowned, and looked like he was about to say something, but Quinto disappeared back to the kitchen to grab his own cup before he could.

When he returned, he sat in the armchair across from the table, watching them both.

 

“What's your name son?” he asked finally, breaking the silence.

“Quinto,” she hissed. You don't just ask a vigilante for their name, especially if they were in a weakened state and were liable to give it to you.

“What's a name we can call you then?” Quinto amended.

The Devil squinted, still not looking at either of them.

“Mike. Can call me Mike.”

“Mike,” Gisella repeated. “I am Gisella. This is my husband Quinto.”

The Devil, Mike, sipped at his hot chocolate.

 

The silence stretched as they all sipped at their hot chocolate.

 

“So do you think we should have the children over for dinner?” Gisella asked, continuing the conversation they had started some time ago.

Quinto eyed her. “Is this really the best time?”

She shrugged. “He's getting warmed up. There's not much we can do right now. What do you think Mike? Should I invite my children and grandchildren over for a Sunday dinner? I was thinking of making minestrone soup. I don't get to see them very much anymore. They grow up, they move out, they move to different parts of the city-”

“Different states,” Quinto adds.

“Yes, different states. I should get to see them more than once a year, or when people are in the hospital. I would invite them to church, but I know they wouldn't go.” She huffed. “Carlo says he has outgrown church. I don't know how you can outgrow God.”

She patted Mike's hand. “Someone must have been looking out for you tonight,” she told him.

There was whispering coming from under the blankets, and she leaned in to hear it.

“...not hide your light under a basket, but let it shine for the whole world, for all the centuries to see. We may not suffer torture in our lives the way...”

She leaned back, feeling like she was intruding. She couldn't place the prayer, but knew it was Catholic. So the boy was Catholic then. Perhaps even went to the same church as they did, took confession in the same place. Perhaps they were more alike than they knew.

 

Mike's head dipped.

“Ah, no, stay awake dear,” she told him, poking at his cheeks. She took the nearly empty mug from his lax hand before the remainder of the hot chocolate could spill.

Quinto got up from his chair, crossing the small space to crouch down in front of them.

“Wake up Mike,” he said loudly. He squeezed Mike's shoulder, which elicited a gasp. He sat up straighter.

Gisella thought he might have been staring at Quinto, but it was hard to tell. The man's eyes didn't focus.

“...dad?” he whispered.

Gisella's heart broke.

Quinto set a hand on Mike's shoulder.

“It's alright son,” he assured him. “How are you feeling?”

“M'so tired,” he sighed, slouching back into the couch, the cocoon of electric blanket wrapped around him.

“I know. But you're doing great. Are you hurt anywhere?”

Mike shook his head. “Just some bruises. Nothing I can't handle.”

“You shouldn't have to handle them. You need to be more careful,” Quinto told him, echoing a conversation Gisella could remember happening years and years ago. Was it with Carlo? Or was it with Franc?

Mike's eyes were filling with tears. “I know you told me not to fight,” he said. “But you don't understand. All the suffering I heard. There was so much of it. I couldn't do nothing anymore.”

“I understand,” Quinto assured him. “I'm still proud of you.”

Mike broke into sobs and Gisella was sure that couldn't be healthy in his state.

She wrapped her arms around the entire electric blanket cocoon. “Shh, it's alright dear. You need to save your energy. Would you like something to eat?”

She thought there might have been a slight nod from inside the cocoon.

“I don't think this is the appropriate occasion for gelato. How about some toast with another hot chocolate?”

Another nod. She looked to Quinto. He nodded back.

“I'll get that for you Mike,” he assured the man.

“You'll come back?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” Quinto assured him.

Gisella grabbed the thermometer off the table. “Mouth open,” she told him.

He wiped the tears from his face with one of the sleeves of the sweater. It was far too big on him, but she didn't think her clothes would fit much better, albeit for a different reason.

Mike obeyed, and she stuck the thermometer under his tongue. He made a face but didn't spit it out. Doing a little bit better at least then. As well as he could be considering he just thought Quinto was his father, who was likely dead if his reaction was anything to go by.

While she was considering that, it beeped and he took it out, handing it to her.

“What's it up to?” he asked.

She eyed him. Why didn't he just read it?

“88.1 degrees,” she told him. “Are your eyes okay?”

He scoffed a little. “Same as 'sual.”

Gisella frowned. “Have you hit your head recently?”

He shrugged.

“Are you lying? Because memory loss is a symptom of concussions. So is blurry vision. Which might explain why you couldn't read the display or look us in the eye.”

She waited for a clever retort, but he only shrugged again. She sighed. “Quinto,” she called to the kitchen. “Get the laptop. We have to look up how to test for a concussion.”

The inside of the cocoon scowled at her. “Not a concussion. Cold.”

“Yes, hypothermia. But you could also have a concussion.”

“Don't,” he insisted. “'Sperienced.”

“Of course you've had concussions before. Then could you explain to me why you can't read a digital display.”

He hummed.

“I will get Quinto to bring the computer, and you will be forced to suffer through two old people trying to figure out how to work the google,” she told him.

He scoffed. “S'fine. Just blind.”

“Blind,” she repeated. If it was a lie, it was certainly a terrible one. So terrible in fact, that it couldn't be a lie. Which meant it was true. And now that she considered it, the prayer could have been St Lucy's, who was, coincidentally enough, the patron saint of blindness.

“Blind?” she asked. “Completely? How do you… jump around?” It was impossible for her to imagine, doing that, even with perfectly good vision, or at least fine for her age with glasses.

 

He waved a hand through the air in front of his face, like it was supposed to mean something. And maybe it did, in his hypothermic state, but she didn't understand it. He probably expected her to pry more, ask how he could do it, the details. But she changed the topic instead.

 

“You know,” she told him. “My granddaughter, Mira, she was in town looking at colleges. Columbia mostly. She was going to visit us too, surprise us. But when she was heading here, two men approached her in the street. The one had a gun and the other one had a knife. They wanted her purse, her watch, and they would have hurt her if they needed to. But then the Devil of Hell's Kitchen came out of the sky, swooped in, and saved the day. The one man held a knife to her, cut her open. She needed five stitches. She was shaken up, but fine. Mira could have been robbed that night, she could have been raped, left for dead, killed. I know this city, and I know that sometimes terrible things happen. But not that night. Because you were there that night.”

She paused, trying to judge his reaction, but Mike didn't say anything. He had started shivering though, which was a good sign. She continued.

“So I could ask you all sorts of things, try to make judgements about… whatever it is you do and how. Or I could just be thankful that you are there when people of this city need you. And I think that's the one I'm going to stick with. So Quinto is going to get you some food and some more hot chocolate, and you're going to eat it, and I'm not letting you leave here until your temperature is normal. But I'm not going to ask anything else of you.”

 

“Thank you,” he said after a moment.

“No,” Gisella told him as Quinto came back into the room with toast and more hot chocolate. “Thank you. For everything.”

And inside his cocoon, Mike smiled.

 

**Author's Note:**

> TBH, with a temp like that, he should have been in a hospital. but this is Matt we're talking about, so.


End file.
